Chapter 115: Northeast Defense 1

Deep autumn on the Songhua River, the water, laden with broken ice, moans as it flows east. The river wind lifts the gunpowder smoke, sweeping over Liao Yaoxiang's solemn face. He stands on the wreckage of the river bridge, its steel skeleton twisted like a dying beast, the charred steel plates glinting dark red in the setting sun.

On the south bank, more than five hundred Japanese motorboats cover the river like locusts. Each boat carries over twenty soldiers of the Kwantung Army's 16th Division, wearing Type 90 steel helmets, bayonets on Type 38 rifles flashing coldly in the dusk. In the sky, a formation of Type 97 bombers roars by, dropping bombs that erupt towering water columns on the river.

"Open fire!"

The machine‑gun nests on the north bank spew tongues of flame. Northeast Army soldiers operate Czech light machine guns, casings scattering like rain. Three magazines, only ninety rounds—that is their last resistance. Japanese bombers dive, a fifty‑kilogram bomb lands precisely on the machine‑gun position, flames instantly devouring those young lives.

Liao Yaoxiang's fingers whitened as he issued the order: "Tank battalion, charge!"

Ten tanks roared down the river embankment. These steel giants from the north skid on the frozen surface, their tracks churning ice shavings.

But the Japanese counterattack came faster. Soldiers on the motorboats threw Type 93 incendiary bottles; the glass shattered against tank armor, viscous liquid mixed with rubber and phosphorus splashing everywhere. One tank instantly became a fireball, its hatch slammed open, the crew scrambling out, only to be riddled by intersecting fire from Type 96 light machine guns.

The river had become hell. Ice‑water floated with the bodies of Northeast Army soldiers, their uniforms bleached white by the river. A soldier struggled in an ice hole as a motorboat propeller roared past, a cloud of bright red blood instantly staining the water. On the shore, a middle‑aged man with glasses raised an old‑style hunting rifle, bullets ricocheting off the motorboat's steel hull. He stubbornly reloaded until two Japanese soldiers leapt ashore, their Type 30 bayonets thrust precisely into his chest, pulling his whole body out of the water.

"Retreat!" A guard clutched Liao Yaoxiang's arm tightly, "Commander, we must withdraw!"

Liao Yaoxiang turned his gaze back; the last bunker on the river defense line was collapsing. Concrete fragments flew outward, and the soldiers inside detonated their explosive charges.

Night fell, and the Liaoxi corridor turned into a true Blood and Flesh Mill.

Song Xilian trudged through thick blood‑mud, inspecting the positions. Of the original eighteen thousand troops, fewer than six thousand could still stand. The trench was layered with corpses, in places the bodies rose almost to the chest wall. A sixteen‑year‑old junior messenger was collecting the identity tags of fallen comrades; his right hand had only three fingers left, yet he mechanically repeated the motions.

"Commander, the Japanese are massing again!" The messenger's voice was hoarse, his face streaked with blood and tears.

In the distance, the lights of Japanese Type 95 light tanks glowed like beast eyes. Song Xilian recalled the director's admonition, yet also seemed to see the refugees fleeing toward Shanhaiguan with families in tow.

"Send power to Officer Du," his voice unusually calm, "We can still hold for three more hours."

The Japanese command post, temporarily set up in a railway carriage, had Lieutenant General Duomen Erlang frowning at the battle map. The staff officer reported the casualty ratio: for every 2–3 Chinese casualties, the Japanese lost one. Such a war of attrition was not what he wanted.

"Order the third tank regiment to advance forward," Duomen Erlang tapped the map with his command stick, "Artillery regiment, conduct extending fire to cut off the Chinese Army's retreat."

As the staff recorded the order, Duomen added, "Send power to Kwantung Army Headquarters: the Liaoxi corridor has been breached, request reinforcements for pursuit."

The makeshift field hospital behind the lines was set up in an abandoned elementary school. Lacking anesthetics, the medics could only perform amputations with bayonets. Cries of agony rose repeatedly; a Northeast Army soldier who had lost his right leg clutched a nurse's hand tightly:

"Don't throw away my leg... I can still walk... still fight the little devils..."

The nurse turned her face away, tears dripping onto the blood‑stained bandage. The classroom blackboard still bore the earlier chalk writing: "Huaxia Geography—Northeast."

At the front of the position, Song Xilian watched the Japanese's new wave of attack surge like a tide.

Shells from a Type 92 infantry gun landed before and behind the trench, kicking up mud mixed with flesh and blood. A Northeast Army soldier lit a fuse, the explosive pack hissing at his waist.

"Come on, you little devils!" he shouted, leaping from the trench toward the nearest Japanese tank.

A massive explosion shook the entire battlefield. In the firelight, the Japanese tank's tracks clattered and scattered. Surviving Northeast Army soldiers were emboldened, raising their bayonets and engaging the charging Japanese in close combat.

The clatter of bayonets, the wails of the dying, and the blasts of grenades intertwined. An elderly Northeast Army veteran used a captured Japanese sword to hack down three enemy soldiers before a bullet struck his brow. The young messenger detonated the last grenade, perishing together with a Japanese squad leader.

In this hell of blood and fire, no one took a step back.

Three hours later, when Du and Ming's reinforcements finally arrived, a thick wall of corpses already rose at the Liaoxi corridor front. Fewer than five hundred survivors still clutched their guns, their bayonets slick with blood, uniforms reduced to rags.

In Duomen Erlang's command post, the staff was reporting the latest casualties: Japanese losses exceeded four thousand.

"What?" Duomen Erlang sprang to his feet, "That's impossible!"

Outside the window, dawn's first light pierced the smoke, falling on this blood‑soaked land. The Liaoxi corridor remained in Huaxia Army hands, at the cost of twelve thousand and two hundred plus young lives.

On the Songhua Riverbank, Liao Yaoxiang led the remnants toward Qiqihar to retreat. He looked back toward the south bank, where the Japanese rising sun flag had already been planted on the river defenses. But farther north, he seemed to hear more footsteps—the countless footsteps of Huaxia people.

The river still flows east, carrying away blood but not memory. This battle has only just begun, and the crimson has already dyed the entire Northeast sky.